


Master Marx's Guide To Handling Little Bards

by Witcher_Trash_Party



Series: Witcher Trash Party [13]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Underage, Grooming, M/M, Manipulation, Painful Sex, Pedophilia, Spit As Lube, Underage Rape/Non-con, Watersports, belly bulge, valdo is a terrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witcher_Trash_Party/pseuds/Witcher_Trash_Party
Summary: Jaskier is five when he meets Valdo Marx, and he's instantly enamoured with the man. It only gets worse from there.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Series: Witcher Trash Party [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990582
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	Master Marx's Guide To Handling Little Bards

**Author's Note:**

> _"How about little kid Jaskier being groomed and trained by a visiting bard Valdo Marx? He stays at their castle for a months or so to entertain his parent’s court, finding his own entertainment in their young son. Him coming back over and over to break the kid further, make him not only his little willing fucktoy but his pisspig and toilet. [...]"_

Jaskier has wanted to be a bard since he could remember. He fell in love with music when he was just a babe, and he’s been trying to make his own ever since he could speak.

His parents don’t mind his passion - they support it, even, always pleading with visiting musicians to spare some of their time for Jaskier and tell him a bit about the ins and outs of the bardic profession. Some bards are happy to indulge Jaskier’s questions, lend him their instruments and show him how to play them, smiling politely the whole time. Some aren’t as nice and secretly roll their eyes, but they give Jaskier a bit of their time anyways, because the viscount and the viscountess pay them to do so.

Valdo Marx, the man that first visits Lettenhove shortly after Jaskier has celebrated his fifth birthday, seems to fall into the first category. He positively _beams_ when he’s introduced to Jaskier, and he offers to hang out with him in his spare time.

Jaskier is already enamoured with the man after the first night - his melodies are pretty and his lyrics are incredibly clever. He can’t wait to spend time with him and learn everything he can.

***

When his tutor finally lets him go the next day, Jaskier immediately goes searching for Master Marx. He follows the sound of music deep into the estate’s gardens, until he finds the man sitting beneath a willow tree, a lute in his lap, his fingers gently picking at the strings.

“Young Master Julian, what a pleasure,” the man grins when he notices him, stopping in his playing.

“Don’t call me that,” Jaskier flushes. He doesn’t like being a Young Master, or a Young Lord, or anything else, and he doesn’t particularly feel like a Julian either. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Of course, little Buttercup,” Master Marx says. “So you want to be a bard, yes?”

Jaskier eagerly nods. “I love music,” he says simply, though his desire is a bit more complex. He loves when things rhyme and loves sweet melodies. He’s a social child, he loves meeting people and making new friends. He loves discovering new things, learning, knowing - outside of his tedious lessons, of course.

“Do you play an instrument?” Master Marx asks.

“The flute,” Jaskier says. His parents said that it would be the best start for him - no biting strings, no calluses - but he’d be happier with an instrument he can sing along to.

Master Marx notices him eyeing the lute. “But you’d like the lute better, wouldn’t you,” he says. “I understand. It’s such a beautiful instrument. Her curves fit right into your hands. And she has the prettiest sound…” To demonstrate, he picks a few strings, lets Jaskier hear the ringing notes. “Would you like to try it out for yourself?”

“Yes please, Master Marx!”

Something flashes in Master Marx’s eyes. “Come sit with me, then,” he says.

Jaskier hurries to his side, and as he bends his knees to sit beside the troubadour, Master Marx wraps an arm around him and manhandles him so that Jaskier sits on his lap instead. Confused, Jaskier turns his head to look at the man, but Master Marx just smiles at him sweetly, his arm still resting, heavy, on Jaskier’s belly.

“I can teach you better like this,” Master Marx says, pushing his lute into Jaskier’s hands. _That makes sense,_ Jaskier thinks. Mater Marx can lead his hands better like this.

The fretboard feels big for Jaskier’s tiny hands, and he’s having some difficulties with fitting the body in his lap, but Master Marx lets him squirm as much as he needs and then he covers Jaskier’s hands with his own to show him how to strum and pluck the strings.

Master Marx keeps praising him for his successes and gently correcting any mistakes, his melodic voice hotly caressing the shell of Jaskier’s ear, the back of his neck. It gives him goosebumps.

***

The catgut strings of the lute bite into Jaskier’s fingers, but he still seeks out the troubadour the next day, just as eager, and then the day after that and so on. They have at least one lesson a day, either outside in the gardens or in Master Marx’s room. Jaskier sits in Master Marx’s lap as the man shows him how to play chords and notes, his hands warm where they cover Jaskier’s, his breath hot on Jaskier’s neck.

“You are doing good, Jaskier,” Master Marx tells him, whispering compliments into Jaskier’s ear. “So good, my little Buttercup.”

They’re in his room today, sitting on the fur laid in front of the fireplace.

“Thank you, Master Marx!” Jaskier beams at him. “Soon I’ll be a great bard just like you!”

“That you will,” Master Marx agrees, caressing Jaskier’s thigh. “Come on, put aside the lute for a bit - your fingers must hurt, do they not?”

Reluctantly, Jaskier agrees and sets the instrument aside. He likes the weight of it in his hands, doesn’t mind the pain of the strings - he can’t play much on it, only truly remembering a chord or two, but he likes it.

“Let’s take a little break, hm?” Master Marx murmurs, turning Jaskier around to face him, still sat in his lap. He takes Jaskier’s hand - the one that gripped the fretboard just a moment ago - and brings it to his face. He leans forward and kisses, one after another, the tips of Jaskier’s little fingers where the strings left dents in his soft flesh - his eyes, dark with hunger, watching Jaskier’s face the whole time.

Jaskier feels like he should speak up. He _wants_ to speak up, it feels weird and he wants it to stop, but breath catches in his throat and the best he can manage is to squeak, “M-master Marx?”

“Say that again,” Master Marx tells him, catching Jaskier’s chin in his grip. He runs the pad of his thumb along Jaskier’s plump lower lip. Something hot and hard is pressing into Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier is too scared, too confused not to obey. “Master Marx,” he whispers.

“Good boy,” Master Marx grins. “Such a good, clever boy, so grown up. You’re so grown up you can play adult games with me, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Jaskier stammers. “I’m a big boy.” He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he always feels better when people see he isn’t just a stupid baby. He’s grown up, and he wants to play all the games, especially the adult ones, whatever those might be.

Master Marx chuckles and slips a hand under Jaskier’s pretty embroidered chemise. He runs his palm up and down his chest, hot like a branding iron, and when he pinches Jaskier’s pink little nipples, first one and then the other, Jaskier yelps in pain.

“Master Marx!”

“Hush,” Master Marx tells him. “Be good and be quiet.”

Jaskier isn’t really sure about this, but he can’t find it in himself to protest. Master Marx is a grown-up, so he knows best, and Jaskier should do as he tells him. He clamps his mouth shut.

Seeing that, Master Marx gives him a smile, before pushing him to the ground. His hands start clawing at the laces of Jaskier’s breeches. He tugs them down to Jaskier’s knees, and then he reaches for his smallclothes as well.

Jaskier lets out a sharp gasp as he’s exposed to the cool air and Master Marx’s heated gaze. His hands immediately go to cover himself. He feels embarrassed, Master Marx isn’t supposed to see him like this - no one is really supposed to see him like this.

“Don’t be shy,” Master Marx purrs, pulling Jaskier’s hands away from his crotch. “Show me.”

Jaskier, hesitantly, lets his legs fall open. Master Marx’s eyes rake over his form, and Jaskier starts to feel a little nauseous under his scrutiny.

Master Marx brings his fingers to Jaskier’s mouth. “Suck them,” he prods at his lips, “get them nice and wet for me, Buttercup.”

Jaskier does as he’s told. He takes Master Marx’s fingers in his mouth and sucks on them, slathering them in his saliva. Master Marx’s lute calluses feel strange under his tongue, and he has no idea why the man wants him to do this. It all gets even stranger and more confusing when Master Marx cups Jaskier’s pee-pee. It’s mortifying, but it sends a weird tingle up Jaskier’s spine, making him moan around the fingers in his mouth.

Master Marx plays with his little prick until he decides that his fingers are wet enough. Then he pushes Jaskier’s legs even further apart and reaches below Jaskier’s balls, pressing spit-slick fingers against his hole.

“Master Marx!” Jaskier cries, alarmed. People aren’t supposed to touch _there_ , are they? It’s _so_ embarrassing. “That’s - that’s dirty!”

“Calm down, Jaskier,” Master Marx says, “I’m the adult here. You’re going to love this, I promise.” And he begins working one of his fingers into the tight clutch of Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier doesn’t fight him, because Master Marx knows best. It surprises him how it hurts. He tries to persuade his body to let Master Marx _in_ , somehow, trying to relax, but it still feels uncomfortable and Jaskier really doesn’t think he’ll love this anytime soon.

When the first finger is inside, Master Marx adds another. It burns and stings, but at least now Jaskier is prepared for it. There are tears gathering in his eyes.

“You are doing so well, my little Buttercup,” Master Marx whispers. “Playing grown-up games with me like a big boy. Not like other kids your age.”

Even though everything feels weird and confusing and painful, Jaskier can’t help but preen at that. He wants Master Marx to approve of him, so much.

Master Marx pushes in a third finger, and Jaskier’s tears finally fall. It hurts really bad and he can’t stop them from spilling, but he keeps himself quiet. Master Marx did tell him to be quiet, and Jaskier doesn’t want to make a sound, horrified that someone could discover them. Jaskier is so terribly ashamed of what’s happening, he doesn’t want anyone else to see it. He doesn’t want anyone to know.

Master Marx doesn’t comment on his tears. He only pulls his fingers apart, stretching Jaskier further, punching a hitching sob out of him. Jaskier quickly clamps his own hand over his mouth to keep any more sounds from escaping him.

It feels like an eternity before Master Marx pulls his fingers out of him. Jaskier lies there, limp, as the man unlaces his breeches and takes out his prick. It’s so much bigger than Jaskier’s own, and it’s standing up, all red and angry-looking, drooling clear viscous liquid from the slit at the tip. Master Marx spits in his hand and spreads his spit over the whole length of it, making it glisten wetly.

Master Marx kneels between Jaskier’s spread legs and positions his big, scary thingy at his entrance, and Jaskier suddenly thinks the fingers were gone too soon. He can only watch, eyes wide, tears running down his cheeks, his own hand clamped over his mouth, how Master Marx forces his way inside him.

It hurts when Master Marx sinks into him, when Jaskier’s body makes space for him. Jaskier is starting to get used to the pain, and also the embarrassment that comes with everything Master Marx does to him.

“Look at you, my little Buttercup, taking me so beautifully,” Master Marx coos. “Such a good boy for me. It feels good, doesn’t it, playing these adult games with me.”

It doesn’t feel good at all, but Jaskier doesn’t want to look like a little kid that doesn’t understand grown-up things, so he gives a shaky nod. Master Marx fills him completely, it feels like there isn’t any space in Jaskier’s body for anything else. Jaskier feels it in himself where he has never felt anything before.

Master Marx grips Jaskier’s hips tight and starts thrusting into him.

The sharp, burning pain ebbs away after a while, turning into a dull ache. Jaskier closes his eyes tight, unable to continue watching what’s happening to him. Instead, he focuses on staying as quiet as he can, even though the movement of Master Marx’s thingy inside him hurts and his thrusts jostle Jaskier’s little body.

He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. He has the vague feeling that something is very wrong.

Sometime later, Master Marx lets out a shaky moan and something hot spills inside Jaskier. When he pulls out, Jaskier feels it come out too, dripping out of his aching hole, leaving a sticky mess on his inner thighs.

“You did so well, Jaskier,” Master Marx praises him.

He uses his handkerchief to clean Jaskier up. He kisses his forehead, wipes away his tears, and then he starts petting Jaskier’s hair, whispering sweet words.

Jaskier presses into his touch. This feels nice. This feels good. He likes this. And he still likes Master Marx.

“Let’s not tell anyone about this,” Master Marx says. “It will be our little secret.”

Jaskier nods. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He won’t tell, and he prays that Master Marx won’t either. 

***

It goes on like this for a week, and Jaskier slowly gets used to it - a lesson in playing the lute devolves into... whatever _this_ is after a few moments, Master Marx undressing Jaskier and putting his big thingy in him. It still hurts, but it’s better since Jaskier knows what to expect, is well-acquainted with how this goes. Another thing that makes it bearable is the way Master Marx speaks to him and the way he touches him after it’s done.

After a week is when it changes.

Master Marx leads him to get on all fours, instead of on his back like they’ve been doing this so far. He pushes his head down, so Jaskier’s chest is pressed to the ground while his butt is high in the air, free for Master Marx to use.

“You’re going to love this,” Master Marx tells him, stroking his flank with one hand, guiding himself inside Jaskier with the other, his prick spearing him open in a blaze of pain.

Jaskier grits his teeth and nods, as he’s used to. He has doubts, but Master Marx sees someone worthy playing adult games with, and not just a dumb little kid, and Jaskier doesn’t want to let him down.

Master Marx gives him a few slow thrusts. He doesn’t usually choose such a lazy pace, instead preferring pounding hard and fast into Jaskier’s small body. The reason why becomes evident after a few moments - he stills again, buried in Jaskier to the root.

Then, Jaskier feels the trickle of hot liquid deep inside him.

At first he thinks that it’s the white stuff that Master Marx always fills him before he pulls out, but he soon recognizes that it feels much different. There’s more of it, and the trickle turns into a steady stream as Jaskier is filled with warmth.

He feels it stretch his insides as he’s filled, and the stretch turns into a tummy ache.

Jaskier lets out a pained whimper.

Master Marx shushes him, thumbs rubbing circles over Jaskier’s hip bones. He stops an indeterminable amount of time later, pulling out and leaving Jaskier heavy with liquid.

The first thing Jaskier notices is the sharp scent of a chamberpot filling the room, and he finally makes sense of what just happened. Master Marx _peed_ in him! If what they were doing before was shameful, then Jaskier has no words with which to describe how _this_ makes him feel.

“M-Master M-Marx?” he sobs.

“Clench,” Master Marx tells him. “Be a good boy and keep it inside, baby.”

Jaskier does as he’s told. He always does what Master Marx tells him, wanting to impress the man, to earn his praise and sweet words and gentle touches. This time, he also does it because even though he feels disgusting, knowing there’s _pee_ inside him, he doesn’t want it to spill on the floor.

He doesn’t want to make a mess. Because if he made a mess, someone would have to clean it up. And if someone were to clean it up, they might find out how the mess was made in the first place. Jaskier doesn’t want anyone to find out. He knows he’d _die_ of embarrassment if someone found out he let Master Marx go potty inside him.

“Good,” Master Marx says. “It feels good, doesn’t it? You love it, my little Buttercup, don’t you?”

Jaskier drops his head, half-heartedly agreeing. Another adult game he doesn’t understand, but he’ll try, for Master Marx.

Looking between his legs at Master Marx, Jaskier watches him, upside-down, as he strokes his thingy with his hand. The man makes a couple of quiet, grunting sounds, and then he spills the hot and sticky liquid over Jaskier’s butt and the small of his back.

When he catches his breath, Master Marx brings over the chamberpot and lets Jaskier sit on it. The pee comes out of him in a rush, but Master Marx has him wait a longer, until the last of it drips into the pot. Jaskier feels better then, when he’s empty.

Master Marx cleans him with a wet washcloth and then he allows Jaskier to lay his head in his lap and bask in his closeness while the troubadour whittles. Jaskier watches his clever hands at work with great interest. He has no idea what’s it going to be - it’s a strange, bulbous shape, a bit like an egg with some sort of a stem at the bottom.

***

“Strip,” Master Marx orders.

Jaskier undresses, quickly and efficiently, under his burning gaze.

“Face down, ass up.”

Jaskier takes the requested position on the bed. Without being prompted, he reaches back, grabs two handfuls of his ass and spreads himself open for Master Marx, the way he likes him to.

“Good boy,” Master Marx purrs, and Jaskier preens.

Master Marx kneels on the bed behind him. He grips the base of the wooden plug nestled in Jaskier’s arse, the one he made for him, and pulls it out a bit before pressing it back in, fucking Jaskier in miniscule movements.

“Do you want my cock, little toy?”

“Y-yes, Master Marx,” Jaskier answers. He wants it so much. He didn’t like it at first, but Master Marx made him love it. Taught him to love it. So now Jaskier loves it, like Master Marx told him to.

“Beg for it.”

Master Marx likes it when Jaskier begs for his dick. And Jaskier loves doing things Master Marx likes. “Pretty please, give me your cock, Master Marx!” he pleads, “I want it _so bad_!”

Master Marx pulls out the plug, earning a sharp gasp from Jaskier. Then he lines up his prick and presses into him.

It hurts, but Jaskier loves it despite the pain. Or maybe because of it. He’s not really sure - Master Marx only told him that he loves it, never why. Jaskier didn’t think to ask. It’s not important.

Jaskier whines and gasps as Master Marx fucks him at a brutal pace. He still doesn’t want to make too much noise and bring attention to them. He might love this, but he’s still deeply ashamed of it.

Master Marx comes with a groan, spending himself deep in Jaskier’s arse. He stays sheathed, though, and Jaskier knows what that means - Master Marx wants to piss into him. Sure enough, soon there’s warm liquid filling him up, stretching his guts.

Jaskier prefers it when Master Marx goes potty in his ass. It’s much better than when he pees in Jaskier’s mouth and makes him swallow. Don’t be mistaken - Jaskier loves both... he just loves one a little less. 

“My good little pisspig,” Master Marx croons in his ear once finished, “you take it so well, Buttercup.”

Jaskier feels a wide smile tug at his lips.

Master Marx puts the plug back, to keep Jaskier full. When he stands, his belly bulges out where it’s full of pee. It’s not enough for people to notice, especially underneath his clothes, but it’s more than enough for Jaskier to feel. With every step, with every breath, Jaskier feels Master Marx’s piss sloshing around. It’s disgusting, but he loves it.

Jaskier spends the rest of the day full. He sits through his Elder and Mathematics lessons squirming in his seat and clenching down on the plug. He sits quietly as he eats dinner with his parents, listening to Master Marx play and avoiding his hot gaze. Only late at night, in Master Marx’s room, he’s allowed to sit on the chamberpot and let it all out.

Jaskier loves it all more than anything in the world.

***

Master Marx returns to Lettenhove every few months. Jaskier’s parents enjoy his music, and they like how he gets along with their son. Little Jaskier adores Master Marx - he loves playing with him, and he’s always looking forward to his visits. 

The summer Jaskier turns ten, on their last night together before he leaves, Master Marx kisses him on the mouth. “I won’t come back again,” he says, stroking Jaskier’s cheek.

“Why- why not?” Jaskier asks, already feeling tears stinging his eyes.

“I’ve got an offer for a permanent position at the Cidarian court,” Master Marx explains, “I have no other choice but to accept.”

Jaskier’s tears spill. He curls up into Master Marx’s chest to hide his sobs.

“Shh, my little Buttercup,” Master Marx whispers. He rubs Jaskier’s back as he cries. “Don’t think I won’t miss you. You’ve been a lovely toy, I’ll always hold you in my heart. I doubt I’ll find boys of your merit in Cidaris. Definitely not as well-trained as you.”

***

Jaskier is absolutely unconsolable for the next month.

***

At fourteen, he goes to study at Oxenfurt, and he learns the reality of all those adult games Master Marx played with him. The memory of the man quickly turns sour in his stomach.

***

Some thirty years later after first meeting the man, Jaskier wishes on a djinn, from the bottom of his heart, for Valdo Marx to be struck down with apoplexy and die.


End file.
